


Betty

by orphan_account



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), Mad Men
Genre: 1960s, Abrupt Ending, Cheating, Crossover Pairings, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Derogatory Language, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fear, Gender Roles, Horror, Implied/Referenced Abuse, One Shot, Period-Typical Sexism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Tentacle Dick, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Betty can’t help but see the beauty in it all.
Relationships: Betty Draper/Pennywise (IT), Pennywise (IT)/Betty Draper
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Betty

**Author's Note:**

> Literally just a crossover smut fic between Pennywise the clown and Betty Draper. Set during the Mad Men episode “Indian Summer.” Heed the tags, Pennywise literally eats children and says some typical children-eating things that might make you squeamish. There’s also cheating, which may also make you squeamish. Just please, PLEASE check the tags, yo

_Halloween isn’t for another three weeks,_ Betty thinks, and curls her fingers up a little tighter around the doorframe. Her nails dig into the ochre paint until her knuckles ache and turn white. 

She had thought the knock to be her friend Francine, on her way over to gossip about the new single mother who lives down the street, but instead she’s met with _this._ No one in their right mind should be going door to door in this heat dressed from head to toe in such a ridiculous costume, and yet, here stands a clown; tall, and handsome, and smiling as pleasantly as if this is the most natural thing in the world. 

But he doesn’t look right. 

He doesn’t look like any of the clowns Betty has ever seen before on the blurry gray lines of her television screen, not a single one at any birthday party or circus she’s ever been to in her life. Rounded corners make children feel happy, she had learned, when she’d painted Bobby’s face as Clarabell around this time last autumn; but the scarlet lines that pull up from above the young man’s brow-bones are sharp as shattered glass and pointed at the tips like the broken edges of his teeth when he smiles. This man’s suit looks so plain and muted as well, far more conservative than any of the vibrant costumes the other housewives in the neighborhood sew for their children. It reminds Betty of an old victorian doll, like something her grandmother would have kept locked up in a case at the back of her room.

“Why… _Hello there,_ dear,” the odd clown breaks the silence. The skin of his face is perfectly smooth, no scars or wrinkles, and yet his voice croaks and wavers like a feeble old man as he carries on with, “I _hate_ to be a bother…” The clown pauses to let out a strange, down-in-the-throat giggle. “But I seem to have gotten lost... I’m so very tired, and it’s so very hot out here today... Do you think I could trouble you for a glass of cold water?” 

He clasps his hands together tight and bends his long arms up in an unusual gesture of childlike pleading. Betty’s mouth hangs open empty before him, a perfect ring of pink against her porcelain jaw. 

_No,_ she thinks sternly, willing herself to say it, denying the clown aloud in her head. _No, sir. You can’t, not even if I wanted you to. The children will be home soon, and then Don shortly after._ A freckle above Betty’s lip twitches as she silently warns herself, _he’d bounce me off the walls if he knew I let a strange man into the house without him here._

The young Mrs. Draper thinks of her husband breaking her arm and stares. She knows it isn’t polite to stare, and yet she does it anyway. Her mother had always instilled in her the importance of manners, the prestige of presenting herself as something to be admired and held and adored. 

_“Close your mouth or you’ll catch flies,”_ she’d always snap whenever Betty would find herself incapable of comprehensible thought. _“Close your mouth or you’ll catch flies.”_

Betty’s voice lodges in her chest. She narrows her eyes into sapphire slits, so dark and plain up against the unnatural hue of the stranger’s own cerulean irises. Nothing on a human being should ever be that bright, Betty thinks, and it feels wrong just to look at him. It feels like staring into the sky after a dizzying ride at one of the state fairs her father had taken her to as a girl. If she looks into them deeply enough, she swears she can hear the sound of children screaming just as loudly as she does in her memories. 

“I’m sorry— wh-who are you?” Betty’s flaxen hair bounces as she shakes her head and tilts it. 

How long have they been standing here? 

The clown’s eyes dart to the side. His smile falters, only for a moment, then stretches wider than it was before. “Why, I’m an _actor,”_ the clown explains pleasantly, and Betty wonders how the muscles in his cheeks aren’t ripping apart. “Yes, yes, I’m an _actor;_ and I am oh so _terribly_ lost.” 

Sympathy pulls at the strings of Betty’s icebox heart, and her eyes light up like the beams of two flashlights before glazing over with sudden adoration.

 _Of course,_ Betty then realizes, as if she’d been stupid not to think of it sooner. _Of course he’s an actor, and maybe famous too. After all— What else would a man so beautiful be doing dressed up like this in the middle of the day?_

The deep breath she’d been holding in her chest without noticing comes suddenly spilling out. Something stirs at the back of her mind, something like girlish excitement; the thought of someone so special knocking on her door instead of Francine’s or anyone else’s. She feels her heartbeat quicken behind her ribcage and lets her hand drop down from the doorframe. 

On any other day, Betty would have surely turned him away. She would have wiped dry the sweat pooling at the faint dip between her collarbones, would rinse her pretty forehead that’s slick and gleaming under the mid morning sun. She would have changed into one of her many pretty dresses and stepped happily out of this old silken negligee, and would have slaved away her evening at the bend of her husband’s will. 

But not today. 

Today, it’s as if the autumn heat has gotten through to her mind. It’s settled in the cracks, filled up the empty spaces with nothing but brilliant sunlight.

“I suppose it... would only be just a minute.” The housewife smiles softly, and opens her door to welcome the clown inside. 

Betty leads the young man into the heart of her house, only but a touch cooler than the windless air of the hottest autumn day this town has had in years. The clown follows after like a lost dog though the maze of wallpapered rooms and hardwood flooring that creaks as they walk, his body looming tall behind her as they make their way into the kitchen. 

“An actor,” Mrs. Draper marvels, as she fetches a glass from the cupboard above the sink. She fills it with water, cold from the tap, and turns herself back to offer it out towards him.

The clown stares at her. He stands wordless and unmoving, ignoring the glass held out in her hand. His eyes bounce around the room towards the hallway, his large pupils landing on an old family portrait and locking there. Betty waits politely for him to notice her, all the way up until her arm starts to tremble. 

“Ahem.” 

With that, the young man snaps out of his trance. Betty’s eyes fall to his rounded chin, to the flecks of dried paint twitching when his mouth suddenly pulls into another thankful smile. 

“Thank you, Betty,” the clown croons, sweetly; and at last he takes the glass.  
  
The soft hair at the back of the young mother’s neck stands suddenly on end, though for the life of her she can’t begin to understand why. 

Her mind does its best to calm itself, and when she thinks of what films she may someday see this man in she forgets it altogether. She thinks of those big round eyes up on a silver screen, the plump swell of his lips reciting his lines. She thinks of how the fact that they had met once before would be her dirty little secret, thinks of smiling deviously to herself at the drive-in with the family. 

The fantasies ebb and swirl like waves crashing against golden sand, and she thinks of how alone they both are in this moment. She hasn’t been alone with a man in her house since before she met Don, and the thought makes her pulse race in her limbs. Betty looks at herself in the reflection of the glass gripped between the actor’s fingers. 

_All alone with a man as young and as beautiful as I am._

Flirting is wrong and she knows it, knows that Don would leave her all alone like Helen Bishop if he ever caught wind of it; and yet, she indulges herself by doing it anyway. “You know, I used to do a bit of modeling myself,” she reveals, her chest puffing out with pride. “No acting, though— Not yet, at least.” 

When no answer comes, Betty turns to pull out a pack of cigarettes from one of the kitchen-drawers; a mechanical, thoughtless act meant only to distract herself from the odd feeling rising in the pit of her belly. She blames it on her nerves, on the scandal of the thoughts racing wild through her head, and focuses her attention on the hands of the clock ticking away on the wall. The pad of her thumb grazes against the lighter, and she takes a long drag before turning back around. 

“This Indian summer,” Betty offers, to try and fill the silence. A cloud of smoke tumbles from her mouth with her words, and she turns her head to blow out the rest from her lungs. “You must be sweltering in that thing…” 

Her eyes trace the folds and ruffles of the stranger’s suit, from the frill of his collar to the bright red poofs at the tips of his boots. He’s taller than Don, Betty notices, and touches her neck without thinking. His shoulders are more broad, his fingers long enough to stretch at the ivory fabric of his delicate gloves. The housewife’s cheeks grow scarlet at the thought of what gloves like that would feel like ghosting over the expanse of her skin, so she drops her gaze down to the linoleum instead. 

“Are you... _lonely…_ Betty?” 

The clown’s question catches her wholly off guard.  
  
“What?” Stunned, Betty furrows her brows and shakes her head quickly back and forth, feeling the blush of her face spreading to the tips of her ears. “No.” She lets out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff than she had meant and straightens out the ruffles in her skirt. “How could you— why would you even think that?” 

The clown shrugs. The water sways in its glass. He takes a step forward, small, but the floor creaks as loudly as if he were made out of iron instead of flesh and blood. 

“I know how it feels to be lonely…” His words come out slow and soft, like the recitation of a poem rehearsed again and again in his head, “And oh how you seem so lonely as well… I can smell it on you, Betty. I could smell it even before I knocked on your door.” 

Betty shifts her weight on her feet and doesn’t answer. She never answers when men go off on strange tangents like this, ones that make her feel odd and squeamish and small; tangents that don’t usually come from men as special and as handsome as this. She thinks of the men in Don’s office, of men in grocery stores and out on the street when she takes the children on Saturday-morning walks. A woman who looks like Betty is no stranger to the arrogance and frightfulness of men who have things they want her to hear. 

_Grace in the face of all things,_ Betty thinks, and crosses her legs at the ankles.

She ashes her cigarette in the sink. 

“I was always frightened by clowns as a girl. Would you believe it? Clowns?” Betty breaks the awkwardness with a soft little laugh. “You know, my mother used to say that—”  
  
“Your mother was an ungrateful old hag,” the stranger snarls, and the voice that comes out of his throat is the farthest thing from human she’s ever heard in her life. 

Heart in her throat, Betty stares at the man until her jaw slacks open with shock and disbelief. Dread fills the gaps of the smoke-filled kitchen, and all that the young woman can do now is widen her eyes. 

“Better close your mouth, Birdie,” the clown hisses, twisted and cruel, with a mouth full of animal-like teeth. “You wouldn’t wanna catch any _flies…”_

The sound of insects buzzing fills up her ears, though she can tell somehow it isn’t real, isn’t really here; like a loud thought in a silent room. Birdie— only Don calls her Birdie. Only her mother has ever told her that idiom before, memories so clear she can reach out and touch them. Betty’s unease grows to sheer horror, at odds with how this man she’s never met could know such intimate details of her ever so private life. Her hands begin to violently shake, petrified, as the stranger’s chest rattles with a terrible laugh. 

The room feels smaller now. All that terrible heat feels suddenly gone. 

“You’re— You’re scaring me,” Betty tries to tell him, but isn’t even sure if she’s said it aloud. Her mouth tastes like gasoline, acrid and burning as her tongue sticks to the backs of her teeth. Her eyes flick to the glass of water resting in the clown’s hand. All this time standing here, and he hasn’t even taken a sip. 

Dread hits like a fist to the belly, like a foot slipping out at the bottom of the stairs. 

_I never even told him my name._

He smiles again, yellow and wide, like he can read the thought straight out from her head, like he’s pleased she’s been able to figure it out. The blue of his eyes is now yellow as well, with thousands of red vessels bursting to life around the colored rings of its irises like branches on a tree. 

Betty trembles and waits for the man to suddenly lunge, to grab her by the neck and stab her in the chest like a villain in a film; but instead the clown’s face falls disinterested and bored. He twitches his shoulder in what she’s certain must be a nonchalant shrug and sets his glass down gentle on the table. She follows the path of his arm with blown-out eyes, and sees that his hands no longer end in fingers, but in terrible claws. 

“I thought about eating your children.” 

The man takes a step forward. She can smell him now, the stench of his terrible breath; like a can of motor oil spilled on the edge of the driveway. He reeks of roadkill, of blood boiled dry under the late summer heat; of sewage as it slops over his terrible mouth. 

“Little Sally bounding in her pretty green dress, and your little Robbie too...” The clown stills for a moment, smiling fondly at the thought. “I was going to wait for them, watching from the drain as they walked their ways home; yes, yes, I would have watched them, Birdie— I would have feasted on their bones and eaten their eyes—”

Betty whips her head away and slaps her hands up over her ears. She waits for him to reach out and touch her, ready to dig the blunt points of her nails right into the center of his eyes when he tries. 

Instead the voice carries on, only it’s as clear and as loud as if Betty had thought up its voice for herself. 

_“But when I saw their mother? The most beautiful human since the last of my rest? Well then, Birdie, I saw you; all alone in this big old house, and I had to change my mind.”_

Betty pulls her face into a look of disgust, angry at having the safety of her mind so easily taken away. She whips her head back and glares defiantly when she drops her hands back down to her sides. 

“So you’re going to eat me instead,” she reasons flatly, with the sneer of a petulant child. 

“Not today.” The clown smirks. “Though I would love to taste that pretty red flesh beneath all that pretty pink skin…” 

Betty doesn’t scream or cry, doesn’t throw up her hands and faint down onto the floor of the kitchen. She can hardly remember a time when she was anything more than reserved, as if all of her emotions are only capable of reaching a certain point before suddenly vanishing. 

“This is a dream— a haze, like when I had Sally.” 

“Predictable,” the stranger hisses and rolls his darkening eyes. “This isn’t real,” he mocks, in a voice that sounds higher than the one he’s been using, “I’m only dreaming… You aren’t real, Pennywise.. You can’t hurt me…” Betty jumps, as the clown lays a hand down flat over the curve of her hip. “Pathetic.” 

His eyes fall down to trace over the frame of her body, and Betty thinks of all those hours spent listening to a man preach at her family when she was only just small; thinks of sin, and of demons, and of lust. That’s right, Betty thinks. It must be. He must be a demon of lust. A devil, an incubus, something.

The twisted clown stands before her like a threat, like his presence itself is the bright glint of a knife ready to slide across her throat and yet, Betty can’t help but see the beauty in it all. The storybook slant of his jaw and the way it feels to be touched by someone else, someone powerful, someone who hasn’t touched her a thousand times over. He looks at her the way people who don’t know who she is look at her, people who don’t know she’s a mother of two who scrubs dishes every night while her husband downs bourbon in the television-room. He looks at her, as if there’s something left inside of her still worth looking at. 

“Pennywise?” Betty repeats, as if nothing more than to see the way it feels when it comes from her mouth. 

“Pennywise,” the demon answers, and turns her gently around. 

The silver edge of the sink is cool against the space below her belly, and she can hear the wet sound of his mouth pulling into a grin behind her, above her, and she stares into the drain. His chest rumbles like thunder in the sky, vibrating through Betty’s back when he presses up tight against the curve of her spine. She melts into it without reason, without needing one, without caring. She closes her eyes when he drags himself forward and back against the silk of her gown, humping against her in a way that reminds her of being in the back seats of cars, of the terror and wonder of being unwed. Her head lolls back onto his iron shoulder, pillowed by ruffles, and she gasps when she feels the warmth of him straining in his pants. 

“You’ve bewitched me,” Betty whispers, as he cups his devilish paw over the swell of her breast; kneading her flesh so hard that it hurts.  
  
“Oh, Betty,” the stranger named Pennywise breathes in her ear. “If I were using my powers on you?” The hand at her chest rises to her throat, gently circling it with his long, extraterrestrial fingers; while the other drops down to the band of her panties. “You’d certainly know it...”

The housewife keens. Something cool and wet drips down over the back of her neck, down beneath the sheer fabric of her dress to pool in the dip of her navel. She can feel him pulling her panties down over her hips, letting them fall and catch inelegantly at the bends of her knees when she spreads her legs wider. It feels like sin, she realizes, and thinks again of the good catholic girl she was raised to be. His tongue licks up the sweat at the side of her face and she welcomes it. It feels like rebellion. 

Pennywise’s body shifts behind her. His hands leave her neck and her breasts, down to hastily pull himself free from his suit. Betty waits with her fingers wrapped tight over the edge of the sink, sweating and heaving in a way that Don would think unsightly, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight at the thought of him. 

The clown presses forward, balmy and raw, and Betty’s eyes open suddenly wide. 

“We can’t make a baby,” she panics, turning her head to the side; but from the way the stranger laughs at that she doesn’t think she should have worried. He isn’t like her. He isn’t a human being. 

The demon growls. His member, or what Betty had thought to be his member; writhes like a snake against the curve of her ass, wet and rigid and warm. She lets out a squeak and squirms forward, held in place by the steel brace of the clown’s steady hips; and the appendage seeks out her entrance as if it has a mind of its own. Even with her thighs flexed close together like this it slides inside of her with ease, slick with sweat from the heat of the kitchen and her own aching arousal; searching forward until it finds that spot within Betty that makes her eyes flutter back in her head. 

“Why not?” The clown teases, and pulls out halfway before grinding back slowly inside. The member thrums inside of her. Betty feels pinpricks stab into the spaces below her ribs; its talons long and black like the claws of a bear as they shred through the lilac fabric of her gown. “Hm, Little Birdie? I can fill your cunt with my seed— with my brood— and be gone from your life forever. Just like you wanted… Just like you’ve wanted from any man who looks at you for weeks…”

He speeds up his pace, rutting into her from behind, and Betty thinks she might come. She’s never been had like this before, never so full and met with inhuman sensation; like stars bursting in the pit of her belly. A bead of perspiration rolls gently down the tail end of her brow, and yet, even as vigorously as he’s moving now, still dressed in that garish old suit, the stranger doesn’t seem to have even broken a sweat.

“I could fuck you forever,” Pennywise hisses, and its voice drops lower than before. “I could fuck you up until your children come home—”

“No…”

“—and have a nice little snack before I take my long rest… Then you could be free, really free; away from this terrible curse you humans call motherhood…”

“Please,” Betty whimpers, helplessly, mindlessly; and her knees buckle against the wood of the cabinet. “Just— stop… s-saying those… those things...”

“Tell me, Bets. Would you have still fucked the mean old clown if he’d torn apart your babies? I bet you would. I can smell it on you, dripping down your legs. I could smell it before I even got here; stronger than the sweat, than the blood pumping right... through... here.”

The stranger snakes his devil-hand around to rub at Betty’s clit, so swollen it aches, and she comes with a sound just as inhuman as its voice. Fireworks flower and snap at the back of her eyes, tingling waves of pleasure that ripples its way through her core. All these years she’s been married, and not once has she ever felt a single think like it. 

Yet it still isn’t over, she realizes, when she comes down enough to hear the lewd sounds of Pennywise’s cock writhing and gliding quickly in and out of her. Her body goes limp over the sink as his thrusts turn suddenly brutal, pushing the air from her lungs in sharp gasps before going rigid and still. He drops his forehead to press gently against the back of Betty’s hair, holding her tight against him as he twitches so violently inside of her that it hurts. 

They stay like that for a while, the clown locking them deep together; lavishing its tongue over the curve of her neck while Betty catches her breath. It feels like minutes before he finally steps back, sliding out roughly, and the absence of him leaves her more empty than she ever thought she could feel. 

Betty looks at the clock and rips her panties back up over herself, her eyes wild as she spins around. Her once-perfect hair now lays tousled around the frame of her face, looking every bit as disheveled as she feels. 

“You— you have to…” she searches for the words to tell him to leave, and the clown’s face twists up in a snarl. 

“All you women today,” it hisses, as though disgusted by humanity as a whole. “So pretty and helpless and small… Trapped inside of cages you cannot see with your eyes… Like _slaves_ to the wills of your mates…” 

The clown’s face falls, and for a moment he almost looks sad. He glances down at the tips of his claws, and the sadness turns to something else.

“What if we waited for your husband to come home? What would you _ever_ do without him?” 

Betty doesn’t answer, but the question makes her feel sick.

The sound of the door opening in the distance makes Betty’s heart turn to stone in her chest, tiny footsteps pattering against the hardwood in the distance. 

Pennywise smiles wickedly, knowingly, and hesitates for a moment before raising its hand up beside his face. 

“Bye bye, Birdie.” The clown flutters his fingers, and starts to fade out into the light bleeding in through the blinds. “See you again soon.” 

He vanishes then, like smoke in the air; leaving Betty just as alone as she’d been before he knocked on her door.

No more than half a second later, the children come running happily into the kitchen.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!!


End file.
